Heroin
by hpobsessedrissa
Summary: Breathing is not an option. Neither is thinking. But they can feel. Oh, can they feel. L/J One-shot, Mature.


**Summary**: Breathing is not an option. Neither is thinking. But they can feel. Oh, can they feel (James & Lily).

Just a warning…this story is **rated M** for a reason. If you do not do well reading sexual content and/or are under the age of 18, then turn back now. If not (or you really don't care), carry on...

* * *

**_Heroin_**

This is wrong.

There's no other word for it.

He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be enjoying this. It's cheating. It's sin.

But when he looks down, he can't stop. When he looks down, he doesn't care.

He just doesn't give a damn. This feels far too good to relinquish. So very immoral but delightfully wicked at the same time.

Her hands are folded with his, pinned down on either side of her head next to her tangled scarlet locks. Their moves are slow and torturous, the calm before the storm. Turbulent waves that rise and fall as they toss and turn in his cotton sheets. He stares at her beautiful face, a palette of emotions as his hips grind against hers, meeting in the most intimate way possible.

He likes this. He likes watching her. Committing to memory the graceful slope of her neck, the crease that forms on her brow as their passion intensifies, and the gradual parting her mouth as her cries of ecstasy consume the both of them.

Every expression has been memorized by heart. He knows when his movements are slightly unpleasant. He knows when she likes what he's doing, particularly when his hand creeps between their bodies and touches her in places he thought he never would. He knows when she wants it done painfully slow and methodical or so dynamic and rapid that the bed might break.

A sense of power sweeps over him as he hovers inches above her, beads of sweat falling onto her neck. Knowing that while their moments together are limited and brief, he is the only thing on her mind.

She's not thinking about Charles, her mild-mannered boyfriend. She's not thinking about where she _should_ be or what she _should_ be doing.

She's thinking about him.

He crashes into her again, touching every part of her that he's sure no man has ever touched before (at least not like _he's_ touched her), and he can't help but chuckle as her moans become more exaggerated. She's close, so very close, but he's not ready for it to end just yet. He slows the pace before stopping his thrusts altogether, getting the reaction he wanted.

Out of every brilliant moment he spends with her, this is what he loves the most.

Waiting for her eyes to flutter open, revealing the darkest of ivy entangled with searing desire. Buried within is a profound hunger for him to continue what he started. A silent plea that lets him know exactly what she wants.

Him. Only, always him.

He absolutely loves it.

Bowing his head, he grazes her lips with his, the familiar spark flying with just a simple brush. The kiss doesn't last long and before she has time to blink, his hands have released hers and are grasping the headboard with magnificent strength. He's moving once again, feeling her long legs wrap around his middle, pulling him as close as possible. Her back arches into his chest and he can feel the frantic beats of her heart mingling with his own.

Overlooking the perspiration dripping heavily from his brow and into his lashes, he continues to watch her. Her eyes are tightly shut, her face mirroring his in a fusion of lust, satisfaction, and exhaustion. He wants to be a firsthand witness as she reaches her peak. He wants to plunge into her so that she'll fill the room with shouts of his name, pushing her over the edge while he dives as well.

And so he does.

She's teetering. The muscles in her face are taut and her cheeks are flushed—a sure sign that she's almost there. And as soon as he notices this, he drives into her so hard that the bed slams into the wall and she shouts his name at the top of her lungs in pure rapture. Hearing her call his name is just enough to send him into his own release.

His arms give way and he falls onto her, skin against skin, clinging to one another by the sweat of their bodies. His lips are by her ear; the beautiful syllables of her name roll off his tongue in the form of recurring whispers.

'_Lily... Lily... Lily...'_

* * *

_Bloody hell._

One secretive smile from across the classroom has his nerves on the edge, trembling in anticipation. One wink from her sends chills down his spine. He can't even look his girlfriend in the eye when she asks if he's cold.

He knew it was a bad idea to unfold that letter. He knew it was wrong to lift his head and nod, giving her the affirmative.

But he did it anyway.

And he's not sure if he can stop. It feels like he's lost his common sense, lost his willpower to say 'no' to her. Any and every form of reasoning gets thrown out the window.

She's a drug. She's heroin.

Blazing a trail of fire that flows through his veins, merges with his blood, and becomes a part of him--a part of his soul. And that's why he left Beth by herself tonight.

So he can go in search of his daily fix.

It's not romantic, not even close, but it's what they both want and need right now. Finding in each other what's been missing from their conventional relationships.

The excitement. The thrill. The knowledge that their significant others are somewhere in the same castle without a clue. The adrenaline rush is irresistible. She can't refuse it and when she needs that high, he's the first one she calls. That knowledge only makes his craving for her grow stronger.

He's not quite sure how it all began. How he started 'staying up late to work on head duties' or sneaking into the girl's bathroom after his second class of the day. He doesn't know when he actually started cheating on Beth—did it initiate with a furtive look, a suggestive wink, or the wonderful act altogether? He doesn't know how he became the 'other' man in Lily's love life.

And as he has her balanced between the cold stonewall and his strong body, he finds that he doesn't give a shit.

Good judgment has long since been discarded for madness. Perhaps he threw it away when their monthly escapades became once a week, and then once a week became every other day. It's so complicated when there are two other innocent people involved. He knows this can only lead to heartbreak, but it doesn't matter to him.

He can't even summon an explanation for such recklessness.

Suddenly, they're not alone.

The door to the lavatory squeaks as it opens and another door closes, this time to a stall a couple of places down. She's giggling at the mischief of it all, but he keeps his hands placed firmly on her waist and doesn't stop her revolving hips. The friction is too much of a good thing—_she's_ too much of a good thing—and he'll be damned if he lets some random schoolgirl ruin the moment. So he gently places his left hand over her mouth and picks up the speed.

Her eyes fly open at the abrupt change of pace, but only for a short time. Her head collides roughly with the wall as she tosses it back, her eyes rolling back into her head as the pressure climbs. He feels the moisture of her breath against the palm of his hand and he loses himself. Her heat overwhelms him. She overwhelms him.

Instead of letting go when her body falls onto his, his hands tangle in her hair and her head rests against his damp neck. And they both listen as the stranger in the too-close-for-comfort stall exits without the slightest idea about what just happened.

He adjusts her skirt, she straightens his tie, and he gives her a fleeting kiss on her forehead before slinking out of the bathroom. And she will wait a few minutes, giving him time to clear out before heading off to her own destination.

He will go back to his girlfriend, she will go back to her boyfriend, and they will spend the rest of the day thinking decadence has never tasted so bittersweet.

* * *

He takes into account what he has become. 

No longer is he just a cheater, an imposter sitting in for the role model the teachers and students expect him to be. No longer is he just the quidditch captain, the head honcho of all things Gryffindor.

He's her boy toy. When she tells him to jump, he immediately asks 'how high?'

A part of him, the reasonable part, wants to slow this machine before it kicks into overdrive. Try to ignore her letters, her looks of longing, her sensuous whispers. Try to eventually end this sordid affair altogether. Try to become the man _Beth_ wants him to be.

But that's out of the question.

No matter how many times he gives himself the same old pep talk, he can't do it.

His head falls back against the leather of the chair as she slams her hips down onto his, a slow swivel that makes him lose his breath. He's erased that nagging thought of how wrong it is to be fucking in an empty classroom (and in the professor's chair, no less). Yes, that's been gone for quite some time now. And when she suggested it while they were patrolling, he didn't need to be persuaded any further.

Her toes dig into the floor as she presses down harder, her body melting into his. As usual, her eyes are screwed shut while his are wide open. It's second nature for him to watch, even when he's with Beth. He's found himself noticing things he would've easily overlooked before, such as the impassive look on Beth's face as they have sex. A part of him, he'll confess, hates her because of it. He hates that she's so vacant while Lily is anything but. But more than anything, he hates that he's constantly comparing the two…and discovering that Beth loses every time.

He falls forward, pressing his lips to her chest, her shoulder, her neck. Sucking and biting an irregular path on the flawless ivory. Her hips rock against his and he moves his own back and forth to match her strength. It's unrefined. It's honest. Enlightening, even.

When her teeth sink into his shoulder, he doesn't even cringe. The pain is welcome. It's fitting for the occasion. But he can't let another moment go by when he's not watching her, so his hand twists into her hair and brings her face directly in front of his. She doesn't care. She appreciates the pain, he can tell, because her motions have become harder and more rapid against his. In response, he pumps into her like there's no tomorrow, like they may not get another taste of bliss.

To hell with logic. Rationality, be damned.

Her senses are crying out to him. She's all he can feel. She's all he knows. She moans once again and then her jaw tightens. And then he watches the tears as they leak out of her eyes, sliding unremittingly down her cheekbones and onto her breasts.

So raw is the emotion, but his yearning only grows. He sees that she's on the verge and with one last vigorous push, he lowers her head to his. She's in his face, her breath fogging up his glasses. She yells his name one last time and he can only thank Merlin for the witch or wizard who invented the silencing charm.

She's panting and moaning in his ear, but it's only when her eyes open that he finally let's go. She's comes to rest on his torso and he holds her tight to him, almost possessively.

Breathing is not an option. Neither is thinking. But they can feel.

Oh, can they feel.

* * *

There's been a shift in the atmosphere surrounding them. 

He could feel it in her voice when her lips brushed his ear as she left the classroom. He validated it the minute she opened the door to her dorm so he could come in. And as he removes his shoes, his socks, his slacks, and every other article of clothing separating him from her, he tries to push the thought away.

He cast off that hope a long time ago.

His body completely covers hers, one arm circling her back. This time it's tender. It's soft, slow, and he's savoring every second. It's nothing like their previous meeting.

It's even better. It's perfect.

His movements are slow and precise and he knows she likes it just like this. He knows very well. This is the way it should be. This is what he promised to give her if she just gave in, if she didn't deny him her heart when he first requested it.

If only she had said yes…

Her silky legs wrap around his waist and he hears her breath hitch with each stroke. Her fingers grip the base of his neck, pulling him down to meet her in a soft kiss. There's no extreme lust. No severe pain. No sense in rushing because the world can wait. Time can wait.

Everything about it is pure and easy and he decides that this is something else about her that he loves, something that she'd kept hidden from him until this point.

Between those sweet kisses, he watches her still. He watches her face as the emotions cloud over it. The expressions are still the same, yet somehow, slightly different. At least for today.

He watches, they kiss, and he glides. And it's exquisite.

The minutes are multiplying—doubling and tripling, but the indulgence is still the same. And when he looks down this time, her eyes are on him.

Those dazzling eyes are piercing and they lock with his. Her breathing becomes more labored as he picks up the pace, but his thrusts still remain the same. Smooth, gentle, and absolute heaven. He's waiting for her lids to close as she approaches her zenith, but he'll keep waiting.

She doesn't break. She doesn't give way. Instead, she's boring into him. She's interpreting his expressions, his display of emotions. The roles have been reversed.

He's been thrown into the abyss. He's clawing, scratching, and digging and he can't find his way out. But the abyss is in the depths of her eyes, so cavernous and alluring that he doesn't want to leave. It's a sweet surrender.

At last, he gets it. He becomes conscious of what she's doing to him. She's unlocking the doors. She's revealing herself.

It's no longer a physical thing. He doesn't even need to look at the expressions that he knows by heart. He can look inside, look into those depths, and he's lost forever. He's aware of how special every single embrace has become. How a single breath is more meaningful than any word.

His body comes to a rest on top of hers and he entwines their fingers, holding their knotted hands high above her head and coincidentally bringing his face down to hers. The tips of their noses graze and his pulse is racing just a little bit faster than what's considered normal. Their eyes are closer than ever before.

The whole time, she doesn't move. He controls the rhythm just like all of their other meetings. But it's at this moment, this particular time when the world seems to stop it's spinning, that he comprehends that he isn't the one in control. Not right now.

She is in control. She owns the passion. She owns everything.

She owns him.

Her body curves around his and he knows she's about to climax, but she doesn't move her gaze. She rises and falls, her muscles contract, and she has found her release. But unlike the other times, she doesn't stop.

There's no screaming, no heavy panting, just the murmur of his name into the dim light of her room. She brings each hand to his back—one positioned on his shoulder, the other just above his waist—and she leads him in, out, and over again.

The look in her eyes is so fierce, so powerful as she watches him that he can feel himself falling apart. With each hushed whisper of his name, his muscles weaken. She clings to him, pressing her soft breasts into his muscular pecs and holds him in place. And he can't help himself…he releases everything. Every pent up emotion and every ounce of energy is poured into her.

Tears are stinging his eyes as he lies in the same position on top of her, but he doesn't question it. It's devastatingly obvious. He loves her; he knows that for sure. He's known it all along. And she's made one thing perfectly clear to him for the first time in her life.

She loves him.

No mixed signals, no 'yes' or 'no's involved. Underlying emotions have been banished henceforth.

They did not have sex. It was not a casual fuck. It was something he had never experienced before with anyone, something they'd never done prior to this night.

They made love. It was beautiful and mind-blowing and everything he hoped it would be with her and more. _She_ was more.

He finally understands why it's so hard to let her go. Why it's impossible to turn her away.

Like the air to his lungs, she's a drug he needs in order to survive. She's an addiction. His _delightful_ addiction. And he's willing to sacrifice whatever means necessary to get his dosage.

So tomorrow, _he_ will pass _her_ a note. _He_ will whisper in _her_ ear.

And they'll meet again. They'll make love again, all the while disregarding the ones they're supposed to be making love to.

Because no matter how many girlfriends he's had or will have…no matter how many times he performs this act with someone else…no matter how many times he stares into their eyes, he will imagine that it's her the whole time.

It's her in his bed, against the wall, or on the desk. It's her picture in his wallet, her voice ringing in his ears, and her smoldering touch on his skin. It's her in his heart, controlling the very beat by which he lives.

And in the end, it will be her in his arms…right where she belongs.

* * *

**A/N**: So what do you think? I've wanted to write a story like this for some time. It's definitely different from anything I've done, but I'm fairly pleased with it. I wrote parts of it while listening to "Good Enough" by Evanescence, which is just a beautiful/romantic song in my opinion, and it really set the tone for this. I considered using some of the lyrics since they were so perfect for it, but I didn't want to turn this into a song fic. I do hope you liked it! 

**Please R&R, it will make my day :D**


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